


When the Chips are Down

by tingodvons



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Blood, Bonding, Friendship, Hospitals, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 16:57:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1477105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tingodvons/pseuds/tingodvons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"“If you wanted to get close to me, Herms, you only...had to ask,” Newt lifts his head and turns it slightly, grinning weakly. The fog closes in on his mind more, and through it he hears Hermann shout."</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Chips are Down

“Oh, you’re fucking _joking_ with me.”

The words are sharp and it slashes against Newt’s skin, and makes him grin more than it should, because it means he fucking _won_. 

“You snooze you lose, old man.”

They’ve been in Hong Kong for a total of half an hour, tops, and Newt had made his specific point of skipping the briefing meeting Pentecost holds every time they move location, every time they step into a new Shatterdome. He’d heard the entire speech before, the whole _we must work hard blah blah blah we must try to change the world blah blah blah we must make sure to save everyone and keep everything safe blah blah blah_ except this time, it probably had had the added tones of _this is our last chance, fuckers, and if we don’t win it this time we’re gonna die._

Well, maybe not in those exact words, but Newt liked to imagine so. He had skipped over the entire speech and made a beeline for the new lab space because--

“I am _not_ an old man.”

Because of _this._

“I’m callin’ your bullshit, dude. I’m pretty sure your grandma dresses you.” 

Hermann growls under his breath and steps into the lab, the walls lined with boxes and specimen jars three, four, fives times his size. The room already glows a faint green and yellow, already smells slightly of preserved Kaiju flesh and organs. It makes Newt’s nose burn. But it makes his brain hum.

“And what if she did? My grandmother--rest her soul-- had _wonderful_ taste.” Hermann walks through the pathways between the boxes, a labyrinth they know too well from the past few months. The move between Shatterdomes that they had to endure throughout the past year had been gruesome in a sense. Newt constantly argued that there was no way they could get work done if they had to keep moving around, and Hermann barely kept up with any of it, trailing behind the muscle that moved their stuff, shouting at them to _be careful, by god, those are fragile! Have some more respect!_

“You’re such a _mama’s boy_ , Christ.” 

“Oh, and you wish you had the opportunity to be one.” 

Newt physically flinches at the insult, and he has a thousand comebacks already on his tongue, ready to fire them off if most of them didn’t just involve him screaming in German. They had been together for a record time of only a minute or two, and were already ready to scratch and hiss at each other. 

But Newt knows that Hermann doesn’t make japes at his maternal status (or, lack of), so instead he says, “What’s got you so upset, oldie?” 

Hermann scowls, saying from somewhere behind a stack of boxes, “Oldie? We’re barely a year apart, you insufferable moron.” There’s some shuffling, and Hermann appears from behind the boxes closest to the blackboard that scales the wall opposite of Newt. Only a year apart, sure, but it’s not too obvious with the lines around Hermann’s eyes and the perpetual frown ones that are etched in his face, and especially not with the limp and the tired gaze he permanently holds. 

Not like the clothes are helping, either. 

“As for what’s got me upset, well…” Newt waits while Hermann gathers his thoughts, drumming his fingers against his thigh as his mind continues to expand within itself at the thought of everything he has to do, everything he has to get done: from unpacking the boxes to analyzing the Kaiju to saving the world and to getting a fucking drink of water, _god_ , he’s parched. 

“Well,” Hermann finally starts again, “you weren’t there for the Marshall’s speech.”

“Naw,” Newt says, leaning against a tall stack of boxes that have _FRAGILE_ scrawled on them. “Too boring for me, but I can probably guess what he said.”

Hermann’s mouth opens in what would undoubtedly should be a scathing remark, but the boxes give against Newt’s weight and the lab is flooded with the sound of tumbling jars and packaged samples, glass crashing on the floor and staining the tile. Newt flails slightly to regain his balance, eventually toppling to the damp floor, and he hears Hermann shout, “ _You absolute idiot!”_ It takes his brain a moment to realize that the phrase was said in German. 

“You fool, you goddamn--” Hermann gets a grasp on the English language enough to insult him again, but Newt hardly hears is through the ringing in his ears. He feels something damp under him, and struggles to sit up. His head hurts from where it had knocked the tile, his clothes slowly soaking through. His side also hurts, now that he thinks past the throbbing in his head. But it’s a different kind of pain.

“Look at what you’ve broken! Your own goddamn things!” Hermann’s voice gets closer as the man hobbles over to him, eventually tapping his cane loudly right next to Newt’s head, the sound echoing through his brain. “Get up, you fool!” 

“I’m trying!” Newt grits through his teeth, balancing on wobbly arms. “Have some patience, I just--” He makes a sharp, pained noise, somewhere between a gasp and a whine, as something cuts through his side. He collapses back onto the ground involuntarily, wheezing slightly as another stabbing feeling goes through his back. Newt tries to draw conclusions through his ringing mind, but Hermann beats him to it. 

“By God, you’re _injured_.” Newt watches helplessly as Hermann struggles to go down on his knees, throwing his cane aside. 

“I’m-- _ah_ \-- fine, jeez, get back _up_ ,dude.” Newt’s words fall on deaf ears as Hermann crawls closer to him. 

“I’m going to help you sit up.” It’s not an offering, but a firm command, and a cold hand rests itself under Newt’s shoulder, the other pressing itself lightly against his stomach, and Hermann says, “Try to sit up now.” Newt inhales sharply as the pain spikes through him again, and the hands steady and push him forward, Hermann muttering, “Shh, shh, I’ve got you,” under his breath, so inaudible Newt could be imagining it. 

Newt eventually is keeled over, back arched as he stares down at his wet socks (because of course he had gone shoeless in the lab, what a great fucking _decision_ ) and tries to regain his breathing. Hermann’s hands leave him, but the silence doesn’t last as the man mutters, “Oh, Newt, you _idiot_ ,” then louder, “You’re bleeding, you clumsy fool.” 

“What?” His voice sounds weak and wheezing in his own ears. 

“Newt, you’re _bleeding_. You must’ve landed on the glass from the broken jars.” His hands rest on Newt’s shoulders, and he says, “I’m taking you to medical.” 

“ _No_ ,” he immediately protests, the word meant to be assertive but just sound half hearted. He weakly pushes Hermann’s hands off him, then starts to stand up “I’m not going to--” He cuts off as pain rockets through him again, and Hermann’s hands are back on him instantly, steadying him and keeping him upright. 

“Don’t fight me on this, Newt.” Hermann’s hands leave him for a second, and he grabs his cane and takes a moment to stand back up. “Can you stand up on your own, or do you need me to call medical right now to cart you away?” 

Newt huffs, going forward and balancing on his knees. “I’m not helpless, I can get there on my own.” To make his point, he barrels through the pain and stands up straight. It’s the biggest mistake he’s made, outside of, obviously, knocking over boxfuls of filled glass jars. The blood rushes from his head and he stumbles forward, reaching out to grab onto something. 

The something he manages to grab onto is Hermann, bony shoulders beneath the sweater and Newt stumbles again, slumping against him. Hermann makes a noise of surprise, and buckles under the sudden weight. Newt feels kind of bad. Or, he would, if he could get through the pain in his side and back. And head. His clothes feel wet, and for a sickening moment he doesn’t know if it’s the preservation fluid from the jars or his own blood. 

“Can make it on your own then, hmm?” Hermann’s voice is low next to his ear, dripping with amusement and satisfaction, but also laced with obvious worry. It’s a combination Newt hasn’t really heard before. He kinda likes it. “Clearly not helpless at all.” 

“Shut up, Hermann,” Newt snarks, starting to slowly stand up straight. “I _can_ make it there on my own.” He removes his hands from where they were gripping Hermann’s shoulders, and turns, starting to walk towards the door. The lights make his head hurt more. 

He drags his feet one step, then a second, going for a third. 

And his knees hit the floor. 

“By God! Newton!” A hand, presumably Hermann’s, grips his shoulder and fists the cloth of his shirt. “Get up, c’mon.” He puts his hands under Newt’s arms and pulls up. “Come on, _up_.” 

“I’m not some dog you can order around,” Newt says through his gritted teeth, moving past the pain and standing up. “Commands work in the bedroom, Hermann, not in the lab.” 

He smirks when Hermann scowls and turns slightly red, muttering, “Of course you’d be making jokes at a time like this.” The smirk is gone though when he says louder, “Stay still, would you, I’m calling medical.” 

“No!” Newt’s response is a little too quick, so he tries to cover it up. “No, it’s okay, seriously, I’ll go there myself. They probably aren’t even unpacked yet, y’know? No need to wait for a stretcher, hell no.” 

“Well, you can hardly walk--”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

“--oh, shut up! I’m trying to offer my help!” 

Newt shifts slightly, trying to keep his balance, and Hermann’s hand goes immediately to his shoulder, steadying him. “You’re offering to help?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not hallucinating? I didn’t knock myself out and this is all a dream?” 

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” 

“I’m just checking!” 

“Yes, Newton, you are completely conscious, although not entirely unharmed, and I am offering my own, genuine help!” 

Newt grins as Hermann fumes, steam practically coming out of his ears, and he says, “Cool. Let’s get going then.” 

Hermann groans in exasperation, but steps forward and hikes Newt’s arm over his shoulder, his other arm wrapping around Newt’s waist with a firm grip. Through his shirt, the touch makes Newt‘s skin burn. In a good way. Maybe. “Walk in step with me, alright? Keep a grip on my shoulder, I still need my cane.” 

“Sure dude,” Newt says, taking Hermann’s sweater in his weak grip. “This’ll be just like the three legged race.” 

Hermann scowls, and they start walking together towards the door. Their steps aren’t exactly in time, faltered against each other, and it takes them almost two minutes to get out the door. 

“Don’t people usually do this for people with broken legs?” Newt asks when they get out the door. 

“You can’t make it two steps without falling,” Hermann replies, sounding slightly pained. “I think that’s somewhat like a broken leg.” 

“Right, and you know all about leg injuries, obviously.” 

“I have the right mind to drop you this instant,” Hermann hisses, his hand tightening against his waist threateningly. 

“Payback for the mom comment earlier, dude.” 

“Oh.” They go silent, the only noise in the empty hallway their echoing footsteps, and even those can be distinguished between them. “I’m sorry for that. I was simply...annoyed. My mouth got away from me.” 

“What else is new, man.” The pause between them is thick, so Newt adds, “You never told me why you were so annoyed.” 

Hermann sighs, and Newt tries to focus on the sound of his labored breathing rather than the pain in his torso and back. “The Marshall...talked about how this is our last chance, to put it simply. After this, we simply cannot go own. They’ll have cut funding completely.” 

Newt’s stomach drops, and it’s his turn to mutter, “Oh.” 

“I just--don’t understand it.” Hermann’s voice shakes a little. “How can they just _give up_ on the Jaeger program. That doesn’t...we’ve had _success_ , and _results_. Maybe not of late, but we can rework it so we can continue to fight. I just...I just need more time.” He sounds defeated, and when Newt doesn’t respond, or actually, _can’t_ respond, because what the hell is he supposed to say to that, Hermann barrels on. “The breach, I know I can figure it out, I’m close already, I can _feel_ it.” 

“I thought you weren’t about gut feelings. All about those numbers and formulas, gettin’ you all worked up, poppin’ boners in the lab,” Newt says, his voice weak but obviously teasing. The edges around his vision are starting to go dark and blurry, and he’s not even sure he’s walking anymore. Everything’s spinning anyway. 

“Do you always have to be so _crude_.” Hermann’s voice sounds louder in his ears than usual, and Newt’s eyes start to droop as his head swims. 

“Newton? Newt!” They stop abruptly, jolting Newt above the water in a moment of clarity, and he looks around in panic. “Newt, are you okay? Talk to me!” 

“‘m fine,” he mumbles, starting to go under again. 

“We’re almost there, just hold on for another minute, it’s just down the hall.” Newt feels Hermann’s hand tighten around his waist, this time in protection, pulling them closer. 

“If you wanted to get close to me, Herms, you only...had to ask,” Newt lifts his head and turns it slightly, grinning weakly. The fog closes in on his mind more, and through it he hears Hermann shout. 

“Newt? Newt!? Respond--respond you idiot! God! Help! Someone--” 

And then Newt goes under. 

*****

“Newt? Newt?! Respond--respond you idiot! God! Help! Someone help, he’s injured!” 

Hermann yells it to the seemingly empty hall, but the door into medical is right at the end of the hallway, they were so _close_. Newt’s slumped against him, obviously unconscious, and Hermann’s knees buckle under the push of weight, his leg screaming in protest. He manages to get Newt up against the wall, throwing his cane aside to prop both his arms under Newt and slide them both down slowly, the man surprisingly and worryingly light. He makes sure Newt rests at the bottom before he collapses painfully onto the ground. 

“God--God damnit, fuck…” he mutters more to himself as he removes his hands from Newt’s shirt, soaked through with dark blood, and Hermann looks down at his hands. Stained red. He tries to wipe it on his own shirt, but notices that it’s stained with blood too. Newt’s blood. 

Hermann feels sick to his stomach, and shouts, “Help! Someone, God damnit, get out here and bloody help us!” He should’ve ignored Newt, should’ve called in medical to carry him away instead of thinking he could do it, God, why was he so damned _stupid_. This is all his fault. 

He looks back down at his hands, then up at Newt’s slack face, jaw hanging open and eyes closed, unhealthily pale. He hears footsteps in the distance, but can’t connect them as the only thing he can focus on is how helpless Newt looks, how dead he looks, and how useless Hermann himself _is_. 

“Dr. Gottlieb? Dr. Gottlieb,” a hand is on his shoulder, shaking him out of his trance. “We’re going to need you to move, we need to get Dr. Geiszler on the stretcher.” 

His brain catches up with him, and he says, “Right, right. Yes, of course. Hand me my cane.” They do so, and as Hermann steadies himself as he stands, he realizes he’s getting bloodstains on it. More blood. Newt’s blood. 

He watches in a sort of trance as the workers lay Newt out on the floor, then lift him onto the stretcher. He doesn’t register one of the doctor’s trying to talk to him until they’re in his face, asking, “Dr. Gottlieb? Are you okay--do you need to be checked too?”

“I…” He doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t, and he lets the doctor take his arm and walk him towards the entrance to the medical wing, only a few feet behind the stretcher that carries Newt. 

They don’t keep them together though, carting Newt away somewhere to fix him up while they lead Hermann into a room where they sit him down in a chair, and start asking questions. Is he okay? Yes. Does anything hurt? Just the leg, nothing out of the ordinary. Is that your blood? No, it’s Dr. Geiszler’s. They take his blood, and then leave. 

“Wait!” Hermann calls after one of the medical workers, who stops in the doorway and turns to him. “Is…” he swallows thickly. “Is Newton okay?” 

They smile at him, one that is meant to be reassuring but just looks sad. It’s the same smile as _I’m sorry, Dr. Gottlieb, but you’ll never walk without a cane again_. “I’ll check up on him for you,” they say, then close the door behind them. 

They don’t come back. 

Hermann throws his cane on the ground, and immediately takes off his bloodstained shirt and drops it on top of it with disgust. He’s going to burn them, he decides. Bleaching them will get rid of the blood, but not the memories. 

He wishes he could do the same with his bloodied hands. 

*****

They let him out half an hour later, taking his clothes away and promising to return his cane completely washed, and give him a scratchy cotton shirt to wear instead. He doesn’t much care for the shirt: the neckline dips too low, the cotton catches his skin too much, and he feels unprotected, exposed. He spends a whole minute staring at his tired reflection in the bathroom mirror, fingers tracing over his bony clavicle and eyeing his undereye circles, but he eventually decides that the shirt will have to do. Then he waits, standing against the wall near the entrance, trying to work up the courage to ask someone about Newton. 

When he finally does wrack up the courage to open his mouth, he doesn’t like what he hears. 

“Excuse me,” he grabs one of the attendings by the elbow, stopping them on their track. They’re smaller than him and when their eyes meet his, he’s hit with the practiced emotionless look that medical professionals were trained with. “I--I’m came in here with someone. My--friend,” Hermann falters on the word. For some reason it feels wrong in his mouth, feels wrong since he’s had Newton’s blood on his hands-- literally. And his voice sounds rough in his ears, raw in his throat. “He-- Newton Geiszler? They took him somewhere...half an hour ago.” He knew the time because it had ticked by slowly, and he had watched every clock trying to will it to go faster. “I was wondering if you could direct me to his room?” 

“Newton Geiszler, you say?” The attending starts going through the files stacked in their arms. “I don’t...think I have his chart, but I can go find the attending that does have it. If you could wait here--”

“I’ve done _enough_ waiting,” Hermann rasps. “Just get me to him, please.”

Some concern shines through the attendant's eyes, and they say, “Of course, sir.” And they walk off quickly. 

Hermann barely waits two minutes (he’s staring at the clock again, it’s the only thing that’s keeping him grounded) before they reappear, looking determined. “I’ll take you to his room, Dr. Gottlieb,” they say, and Hermann mutters a quick, “Thank you,” before following them, hand pressed against the wall to keep his balance. He wonders if the attending knew his name already, from seeing him and Newton stand next to the Marshall and Herc Hansen, or whether they looked up his name. Then again, he and Newton tended to travel together. 

“Here you are,” they both stop in front of room 125, where the door is closed and the blinds pulled down. “I’ll send a doctor in soon to tell you his condition. If you need anything else, Dr. Gottlieb, do not hesitate to find me and ask.” 

“Will do,” Hermann promises, hand on the doorknob and waiting as the attending walked off. His grip tightened, and he pushed the door open. 

“Oh, _Newton_ ,” he sighs, staggering in and closing the door behind him. The man lay in the bed, pale and hooked up to an IV, chest bandaged and tattoos standing stark against them. He grabs the chair and pulls it up next to the bed, relieved to sit down as he rests his head against the railing of the bed. “You idiot,” he whispers, throat tight. 

He stays like that for a few more minutes, until the door creaks open and a quiet, but sure voice says, “Dr. Gottlieb?” 

Hermann sits up straight and turns over his shoulder. “Yes?” 

“I’m Dr. Geiszler’s doctor-- I’m here to tell you about his condition.”

*****

When Newt finally comes around, his immediate thought is _holy fuck._ Hey, he never said he’d be eloquent with his thoughts.

He hears something beeping faintly, and he feels around his chest. It’s bandaged. He runs his hands over the bandages, letting them scratch and catch on the callouses on his fingertips. His mind feels hazy, like it’s stuffed with cotton balls, and he struggles to sit up. There’s a sharp pain in his side, something familiar, and he collapses back onto the mattress and pillows. He wheezes a bit, involuntarily, and tries to regain his breathing. 

“Newton? Newton, are you awake?” 

The voice breaks him out of the concentrated breathing, and he turns and sees a fuzzy figure sitting by his bed, but he doesn’t need to see who it is to already know who it could be. The voice says enough. 

“Hermann?” His voice is rough and scratchy, raw against his throat. He has a million and one questions to ask, ranging from _where am I_ to _what happened exactly_ to _why are you here_ , but all he says is, “Where are my glasses?” 

“Bedside table,” Hermann responds immediately, 

Newt begins to lift his hand, but his arms feel like deadweights and it barely goes off the bed, and he makes a frustrated noise through his gritted teeth. “Why can’t I move my fucking arms,” he mutters angrily.

“They’ve given you heavy painkillers. You’ve also been hooked up to an IV line-- you lost a lot of blood.” There’s a pause, and then something is put onto Newt’s hand. “There.” 

Newt struggles to grab hold of the glasses with both hands, and barely manages to lift them to his face and hook them behind his ears. The world comes into focus, and he turns his head back to a now clear Hermann and he mumbles, “Thanks.” 

Hermann purses his lips in response. “Of course.” 

Newt means to look away, to look around the rest of the room, but his eye catches the lines of a sharp collarbone and the beginnings of a smooth chest through a V neck, something he isn’t used to seeing. It’s usually hidden behind high collared shirts and sweaters. “Where’s your shirt?” he croaks, but this time it isn’t because of how dry his throat is. But he can blame it on that. 

Hermann looks down, and begins worrying the edge of the shirt between his fingers. “The hospital lent me one.” 

“What about the one you were wearing?” 

“It was...bloodstained.” 

Newt goes silent, trying to form other words in his dry mouth. The next thing he asks is, “What happened?” 

“Well,” Hermann straightens his back but doesn’t look him in the eye. “The fall you took gave you a minor concussion, and you had two pieces of glass stuck inside you-- that’s what was causing the bleeding, in case you couldn’t guess. Because you _refused_ to let me call emergency service, you got the glass stuck even further in you.” He pauses, looking slightly pained. “You passed out from a combination of blood loss and exerting yourself too much. And they hooked you up to an IV because...Newton, why didn’t you _tell_ me you weren’t eating?”

“I am eating!” 

“You were severely dehydrated, you idiot!”

Newt groans loudly, and closes his eyes. “I’ve been eating, I swear! Just...with the whole moving Shatterdomes, and having to do more work and more reports I...haven’t had the time. As often.” 

Hermann makes a noise of protest, and the bed shakes slightly. He opens his eyes and sees Hermann grasping the side of the bed, leaning forward. “Why didn’t you _say_ anything.” 

“Because I didn’t want to worry you, okay! You were-- you _are_ also worn thin, and now you’re worried about the Jaeger program, I shouldn’t be something you think about too! We’re co-workers, you don’t need to be concerned over me! I can take care of myself!” Newt’s chest hurts as his breathing quickens, the beeping from the heart monitor speeding up in time. 

“We aren’t just co-workers, you idiot, we’re-- friends!” Hermann shouts at him, nostrils flaring and eyes burning, boring into his. “Of course I fucking care about you! I--” He cuts off, clenching his jaw shut. 

Newt’s chest still hurts, but it isn’t because of the bandaged wrapped tight around it. But he can blame it on it. “Why is my chest bandaged.” It’s the only distraction he can immediately grasp onto.

“They stitched you up.” Hermann’s answer is short and to the point, his voice smaller now. Newt’s skin starts to crawl. “They didn’t want you to scratch at them.”

Newt curls his hand into a weak fist. “Right.” 

“But you’re going to be fine,” Hermann continues. “It may scar slightly, the doctor also said. But that all depends on whether you…”

“...irritate it or not, yeah, yeah, this isn’t my first time with stitches, Hermann,” Newt grumbles, turning his head away from him. They wait in tense silence for another few minutes, until Newt tries to take in a deep breath and immediately shudders it out, pain wracking through his system. 

“Are you alright?” Hermann is immediately on his case, god. 

Newt mumbles, “Kinda hurt,” under his breath in hopes Hermann won’t hear him, but it’s no avail. The man has ears like a bat. 

“I can go get a nurse for more painkillers, if you want,” he immediately offers, sitting up straight. “They’ll knock you out, though.” 

“‘s fine.” 

“Alright, I’ll be back momentarily.” Newt listens as Hermann gets up, and the bed shakes as his weight is put on it. 

“Dude,” Newt turns to look at Hermann. “Where’s your cane?” 

“Gave it over to be washed,” Hermann says as he walks to the door, more clumsy without a support. “It was also bloodied.” 

Jesus. How much did Newt bleed? Not that he was really complaining about Hermann finally wearing a more revealing shirt, albeit not by much. Just maybe not in this situation.

His thought process doesn’t get much farther than that, as Hermann walks back in with someone in pale blue scrubs that Newt’s never seen before. The nurse asks, “Ready for more painkillers, hun?” and Newt just nods. Hermann watches him with an intense look from behind the nurse, which Newt returns by sticking out his tongue and getting comfortable in the bed. He turns his head away slightly to hide his smile when Hermann mutters, “God, you’re such a child.” 

The painkillers, plugged into his IV, flood his system and slow him down almost instantly, his brain going fuzzy again as he turns his dead weight head to look at Hermann, who’s sat back down next to his bed. 

“Hey, Hermann?” Newt’s words sound slurred to his own ears as he struggles to stay above consciousness. 

“Yes?”

Newt closes his eyes and mumbles, “Don’....don’t leave me, okay?” 

He can hear movement from Hermann, clouded in his brain, and hears him say, “Of course not, Newt. I’m staying right here.” And that’s all Newt needs before he slips back into the numb, artificial sleep.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> title from When the Chips are Down from Hadestown
> 
> a way to work through writers block, second part coming at some point
> 
> dedicated to Conrad who i was originally gonna give this to as a birthday present but im dumb and didnt it finished in time and i dont have the second part started. happy late birthday Conrad!!


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